Two weeks ago to the day. Good news is that I’m doing much better. While I feel back to normal again, there is an undeniable truth that I will never be the same. While I try to piece my words together on exactly how I felt in the moment and how I felt in the days and weeks following, I am bound to get tongue-tied and fail to articulate myself properly. Please bare with me and thank you.
As someone who doesn’t like to talk about instances of weakness or embarrassment often, this is quite a bold post for me to do on a website that is so easily traced back to me… my blog is literally my government name… But I have found in the days immediately following my panic attack to have been most comforting when I opened up to those I love. I usually keep most things this personal to myself but this did hit me like a million bricks. It completely dismantled my idea of who I am for a good few days and left lingering feelings of emptiness even afterwards, some as recent as today, in fact. Despite it all though, talking about this so freely with those closest to me has revealed to be the most beneficial thing I could’ve possibly done for myself. This is something that normally would’ve been so hauntingly vulnerable to admit aloud that it would’ve be reserved for my diary, mom, and select one or two friends. Since I’ve had such luck expressing myself to those I trust in person, I thought why not my blog too. I have always needed an outlet to freely express myself to feel satisfied and completed with whatever I may be going through, and some part of me believes if I do so on such a public space, it will help me finally close this chapter. And what the hell, maybe some lone person will come across this blog and relate to some of my experiences and feel less alone. A few reddit threads surprisingly helped me, so.
Anyways, the actual panic attack. It was any normal day honestly. I had finished up my day and was preparing for the next, I had a busy couple of days coming up between work, school, socializing, and moving out of my current apartment. I had taken down all my wall decor and starting shuffling items to different corners of my room to ease the stress of last minute packing. Once I was done I made my way to my usual spot to smoke, as I usually did before bed. It was a habit I formed my senior year of undergrad and it kind of just stuck. I’ve had a hard time falling asleep since I was a kid so if I could just smoke a bowl before bed and avoid tossing and turning till exhaustion ended up taking me over that was ideal. Queue a few minutes later and I finally got the relief I was looking for. Everything was as to be expected, I got a relaxing high and after some time started to get ready for bed. However, as I finally laid my head down and tried to knock out, the panic attack starting to set in.
As someone who has never encountered much anxiety in my life other than a few less than impressive nights out and a couple one off events here and there, I had no clue what was happening. To put it in simple terms, I was freaking the fuck out. I shot up out of bed and sat there, feeling this perplexing uneasiness that I still do not have the words to properly describe. As I looked around the my room, now just four white walls, it felt as if they were closing in on me at the same time they were expanding away from me, claustrophobic sensation I’m sure. In my fit of unease, I immediately called my mom, 12:06am . I quickly made my way downstairs to sit on the couch, I needed a change of scenery as my bedroom was making me panic more. My mom, being the angel she is, answered her daughters desperate call and answering her meek “I’m so sorry to call you this late” with a very calm and comforting “no worries sweetie” before asking what was up. Without disclosing the fact that I was high, I tried my best to explain that I did not feel okay through labored breath. Although I’m sure my mom was displeased with being awaken from her sleep after already working long hours that night, she heard my distressed tone and disorganized words and chose to listen and just be there with me regardless of physical distance or lack of understanding for what was truly happening.
As I talked to my mom on the phone for the following 17 minutes, I explained how I felt just off. I couldn’t believe anything was real. My limbs didn’t feel attached to my body, I would look at my arms and they would equally feel apart from my body, too small for my frame, and generally just like inanimate objects. The room I was in felt as if it was bounded, like there was nothing past what I could see; the world as I knew it was confined by what was in my range of view. And the words my mother used to try and sooth me came across as scripted and ingenuine – everything felt like I was in a movie or game. I felt like I did not control my body, words, or thoughts. Although I’ve never struggled with suicidal ideations, I think it would be a disservice to not mention how at any moment I felt like my body would lurch itself out into the street, get hit by a car, and that would be it. I was so scared of dying in that moment, some of the symptoms of a panic attack can fool one into thinking they’re having a heart attack – more on this later- but I genuinely felt like I was going to die that night one way or another, even if it was by falling through the floor (which I did think could happen). Thank goodness there was some part of my brain that was on; I knew these were irrational thoughts and that it wasn’t going to happen, but the fear and freight persisted. I think that was the scariest most helpless feeling I’ve ever had. As I spoke with my mom, I would quickly switch between moments of calmness with some semblance of a grip on reality and absolutely mind-numbing disconnect with the word around me. I asked my mom “should I get one of my roommates, should I wake one of them?” because my world seemed so isolated and narrow that I felt like I needed to see a person in the flesh. During our call I would repeat the same actions. Get off the couch, go sit outside on my front steps, go to the restroom, go to the kitchen to grab water, go back to the couch. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. It’s so difficult trying to explain the exact feelings I experienced in the moment without sounding like a lunatic in hindsight but I am trying to convey the moment as raw as possible.
In what I can only describe to be a psychotic frenzy, I interrupted my mothers kind words to tell her I had to call my best friend, Anna. I needed to do anything that would bring me back to reality and unfortunately that meant involving not one, but two of my closest loved ones into my confusing and concerning thoughts and emotions that night. I called Anna, 12:24am, and tried to best repeat the sentiments of my ongoing panic attack as best as possible. To no surprise, she was equally as receptive to whatever breakdown I was clearly having. Anna generously gave me more of her time, 33 minutes, where I did the same thing as I did with my mom. I negated to mention the fact that I was high, explained that nothing felt real, told them how I felt like my body was going to catapult me into the street only to lead me to my death, and I even repeated the same quirk of going from couch to outside to restroom to kitchen and back to the couch. Thank goodness for Anna though, she really does know me completely. She walked me through my thoughts, let me express myself freely, and helped me with box breathing, twice. The first time she helped me with breathing it was her recommendation, what a blessing she is. I sat down on the floor next to my couch and per her instructions, put my head between my knees, my hands over my head, and breathed to her instructions. The second time was during one of my routines of get off the couch, go sit outside on my front steps, go to the restroom, go to the kitchen to grab water, go back to the couch. Except this time I stopped myself at the fridge, sat down in the middle of the kitchen, and asked Anna to please help me breath again. She made me feel normal for a few graceful seconds here and there. She made me laugh and talked about herself and her day to take my mind off of whatever it was currently fixated on. Towards the end of our call, I felt like I was okay to finally settle down for the night and just sleep it off.
That lasted all of one minute. I started to freak out once again and called my mom back. That poor thing, I’m pretty sure she had fallen asleep, albeit restlessly, only for me to reawake her again at 12:58am with possibly an even more anxious tone. As my mom tried her best to not be annoyed with the lack of sleep I was causing her, she did as moms do best and was just there for me. God, how I cant thank her enough for just being there with me. For 42 minutes, my mom and my roommate’s cat helped me off a ledge while I paced around the main floor of my rowhouse into the early early hours of the morning. I do think one of the things that grounded me most that night other than speaking with my mom and best friend was that damn cat. Feeling something living in my arms did more for me than I think I’d like to admit. I have always found it admirable how pets seemingly know when you need your comfort the most. That sweet cat let me hug it close and kept purring on my chest. The cat made me feel alive and real. It also, somewhat shamelessly, made me want a cat for the next place I’m living.
After bugging my mom for nearly three quarters of an hour, I felt okay enough to hang up the phone. My next victim? The internet. I’m pretty sure my high got hyperextended due to my thoughts but as I turned to my trusty advisor Google for answers to all the horrible thoughts and feelings I was having, I’m pretty sure I only made things worse. The results told me to watch a tv show that is familiar and calming that isn’t very taxing. Okay, I’ll bite, I tried Friends. The first two episodes seemed a little too on the nose, something in each of the episodes made it feel like I was once again in a tv show or game, it seemed to pointed at me. I thought the characters in Friends were looking at me through the screen or trying to talk to me. Thankfully the rational part of my brain that was still around knew this was not the case, the unease of those thoughts alone turned me off of keeping the episodes playing. Next show, George Lopez, same thing. I decided that wasn’t gonna work tonight. Let me just try and sleep normally right, close my eyes and just drift off? No, whatever visuals I was having behind closed eyelids only reinforced my thoughts of a false reality, or simulations, or impending death. My visuals, though now extremely hard to describe, can only be thought of eccentric, third-eye, universe expanding/collapsing, pyscho-frenzy mind-trip, if that even makes sense. Like I said, anything behind my eyelids made me have a soul-crushing weight on my chest that something was wrong and I was going to end one way or another. Nothing was working and I was once again helpless, thankfully not tied with dizziness, nausea, or a pounding heart at this point of the attack.
Now, to stop myself from repeating myself too much, the following couple of hours consisted of me tossing and turning on the couch, cycling through that same weird pacing quirk, some moments of ease and a proper sense of reality, and trying to convince myself that I wasn’t crazy but just having crazy thoughts. Although that night lasted somewhere between 4-5 hours long, I ended up finally falling asleep, even if for only a few hours. The following days, although not as intense, were still days I wish I could forget. I first told my mom and Anna that I was high the night prior but admitting that in the moment felt like it was just going to make things worse for me. I’m glad I got over that humiliation and embarrassment of being high because I think it helped them understand much better where I was coming from and why I also seemed so different. I then called a friend from high school, Rachel, who I knew had a history with panic attacks. She was busy at work but she asked why I called and she immediately told me to text her what had happened and she would get back to me ASAP. She wrote me a beautifully empathetic response and ended it with the intent to speak soon. Lastly I called mom again. She kindly gave me her time at 10:46am, 11:08am, and again at 12:55pm for 4, 13, and 71 minutes, respectively. She didn’t know what to say so I requested she just talk about her day, it helped me so much. I went to work and, to my surprise, I told my coworker. Maybe it was divine intervention or sheer luck, but the same. exact. thing. happened to her once before. Though I would never wish that experience on literally anyone, it was nice to know I wasn’t alone in these thoughts, feelings, experiences, and even the post-hangaxiety state I was in.
I analyzed my panic attack pretty critically. Understanding exactly what may have contributed to me freaking out that day, so to speak. I quickly realized that what I had experienced was depersonalization/derealization or DPDR for short, and though I am not a trained psychologist nor have I studied psychology in much earnestness, I do believe this to be pretty accurate/representative of what I expereinced. The depersonalization side will make you feel like an outside observer of your own thoughts, feelings, and body, or like one is a robot or automaton causing many to feel like they are disconnected from oneself. And the derealization side will have you feeling your world is unreal, distorted, or dreamlike, making you feel like you are a stranger or virus in your own environment. All I can say is that its a pretty fucking awful feeling. The next days I felt really numb and still struggled with the idea that everything I was interacting with or feeling was just for show or an act or just plain out fake. I questioned if I was really here or if I died and there were my “7 minutes after death”. I absolutely hated being alone, I had to constantly be speaking with someone, doing homework, or absorbing media.
I went to trivia that night and halfway through I excused myself to use the restroom because those evil thoughts came back. I went to the restroom and did the 5-4-3-2-1 anxiety calming technique. I waited till I was back at the table to do the “one thing I taste” though lol. I quickly decided I didn’t want to sleep in my room anymore, I unfortunately plagued it with such terrible memories that the thought of being back in there was painful to even think about. Thankfully moving out serves as a pretty easy excuse to sleep on the couch for 4 nights.
The following day I was at work in Virginia with my boss for a very fun 14 hour work day. I do think it helped – I was with someone the whole day. Whenever I would excuse myself to the restroom, though, it was usually to search something up regarding bad highs or DPDR symptoms and recovery. I was afraid I was never going to fully recover. Was I constantly going to be haunted by that night, would I never feel like I belong in this world again, forever an outcast, would I even be able to pursue my ambitions without thinking they were all fleeting causes? I questioned my physical self, I would look at myself in the mirror and feel a disconnect between the mind and the person attack to it. Is that really me? Do I look like that? Is this how people see me? It was a very confusing time, being stuck in this brain full of warped perceptions of myself and my environment.
I would say I fully felt like myself ~4/5 days later. I finally was able to get on the phone with that friend from high school who has had a history with panic attacks. Her boyfriend also had an experience very similar to mine, and as much as I hate to think that someone experienced that same level of pain, its comforting. It is so comforting to know. You know, this is a bit embarrassing but I even direct messaged someone on reddit with the same experience, and to my luck they responded and helped ease my nerves.
My mom claims I think too much and I worry too much. She may be right. I kept analyzing my thoughts and feelings regarding the panic attack and about a week out I realized I was embarrassed that it had happened to me. I felt weak, helpless, and ashamed. Now now now, I know its nothing to be humiliated by, but I was. I determined exactly why I had the panic attack – insecurity about where I would be in a year without the structure of school, moving out, stress with class work, over-working myself, smoking more than usual, and coincidental discussions about life and death the week leading up to it – even one the day of the panic attack, and also just a history of thinking about death a lot since I was a kid (repeating nightmares since age 7ish). But I also critically thought about why I was embarrassed. I’m a white American with two loving parents, a great support system of friends, financial security while pursuing a masters degree, the privilege to even pursue a masters degree in the first place, and a life that I generally really enjoy. I’ve been so fortunate to be in the position I am. I was born on the opposite side of the world and I got chosen to live this very comfortable life… why am I in any position to freak out about my future so much? If anything, I felt like I should be the last person to even be nervous about my future, not when there are children, mothers, fathers, friends, and strangers suffering with more? Yeah you can say playing the comparison game does you no good but is it not true nonetheless? That I have access to more than some can even fathom? I don’t know. I felt like I had it too good to become that weak, and last thing I ever want to be is weak.
I know this ending isn’t rainbows and sunshine, to be quite honest, I don’t know how to end this blog post. All I can say now is that I am feeling much better, I would even argue I feel like myself once again. I am singing with the window down as I drive down the highway, catching up with friends close and far, and spending some much needed quality time with my family in Texas. I am happy once again and only infrequently get relapses of thoughts I had that fateful night. The best advice that I’ve read online was to just realize that yeah, you had a panic attack and yes, you are having symptoms of DPDR. Just let it wash over you, and try not to think about it. Giving it time and energy will only let it manifest further and ingrain itself into your passive thoughts. So although it seems like I am not doing so with this blog post, I still hold my earlier sentiment. I think writing about this as detailed as this and being so vulnerable with it has helped a great day. I am ready to get over that day, those following few days, and that week altogether. I am so lucky for the support system I have.
I survived my panic attack. Everyone does. I am lucky that I was able to move past mine so quickly, I know others aren’t so lucky. I was afraid I was going to be stuck in my mindset forever and never move past it, but I have.
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